Firstborn Duties

In the corner of the kitchen, voices raised,

a skirmish over breakfast, cereal half-eaten,

youth flaring like matches struck too close,

old roles resurrected, I stand as the shield,

mediator of small fires, the flame of responsibility,

tugging at my heartstrings, a lullaby turned heavy.

Milk congealing, lifeless in its bowl,

I remember the hours spent in silence,

handed down like heirlooms, warnings of guilt,

a firstborn burden, woven into my marrow,

while the youngest wades in laughter,

unaware of the thorns that come with bloom.